


Let Me In

by onebatch2batch



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, First attempt at a Frank/Maria, I really wish we had more Maria scenes because I love her, I was challenged to do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 17:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13529475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onebatch2batch/pseuds/onebatch2batch
Summary: Frank Castle comes home to his wife and things are different, but the same.





	Let Me In

Frank Castle loves his wife, there’s no doubt about that. He loves his kids, and his wife, and his suburban home. He gets out of his cab and is practically ambushed by them, all at once, exciting yelling filling his ears. He drops his bag to the ground and cries like a fucking baby because these are his kids, his family, and it’s been too fucking long since he’s been able to hold them like this. The house is exactly the same--same toys littering the hallways, same pictures up on the fridge, same photographs on the mantle. It’s comfortable and unsettling all at once, and once the excitement has died down, the other emotions start coming.

It always starts happy, and then it gets quiet and then he gets tired. He sleeps all night, through the mornings, sleeps until he’s tired from sleeping. He lays with his wife but it’s soft kisses and holding, and he’s too exhausted for much else. He knows she’s disappointed but the exhaustion threatens to consume him, and it’s like he’s barely holding his head above water.    


He’ll have good days sometimes, where he wakes up early and kisses Maria awake, teasing her until she’s sighing beneath him, until he’s pressing a hand to her mouth so she’s not waking the kids. Or other good days where he takes the kids out, just him and them, enjoying the sound of their childish bickering as they adventure around the city. Or days when he finds the energy to go have a beer with a friend, cookout with the neighbors, fix one of the many projects around the house. These days he enjoys, these days he can close the door on the hunger hibernating in his chest, ready to wake as soon as he steps back on a plane. 

He has bad days, too. Days where he argues with Maria until she’s crying hot, angry tears. Days where his kids fight and it’s too much noise, too much for him to handle and he has to busy his hands, fix something in the garage until his thoughts clear up and he’s not seeing red. Days where Maria comes to him looking for comfort and he feels ice freezing up his veins until she leaves him to himself, takes the kids and leaves. The anger boils just below the surface, filling up his thoughts until he thinks he’s going to break. 

And then some days he does. One day Maria comes back and the kids aren’t with her. She stands in the doorway of the kitchen and watches him stare into the open fridge with hard eyes. He ignores her, feels the glare on his back, knows he should get out before he erupts, before the hot lava pours out of his mouth and out of his eyes, before the cracked rocks of his knuckles find something to destroy. He doesn’t. He stands there hoping and wishing for her to say something,  _ do _ something. 

“Frank,” she says in that voice. That fucking voice that says  _ I want to hate you but I can’t  _ and  _ look at me I’m right here _ . 

“Maria,” he tosses back, over his shoulder, pulling out the deli meat, turning to the counter. He’s ravenous, suddenly, and he grabs the bread and focuses on what his hands are doing.

Maria stalks over, slams her hand on the counter, peers up at him angrily. 

“You need to  _ talk  _ to me.” 

He works around her arm, throwing together a sandwich. The familiar heat is building up, pooling in his belly, and he focuses on the task before him. Bread. Mustard. Turkey. One after one. He’s got the tomatoes out and he starts slicing them, hand steady, deep breath in and deep breath out.  _ I love my wife. I love my wife and she’s upset. And I’m not gonna fight with her. _ The mantra echoes in his head, but he can feel the fury coming off her in waves, so close it’s warming him up from the inside. The hibernating hunger stirs, smelling the coming fight.

Maria is seething. They’re so fuckin’ similar, he thinks, both holding their emotions so close to the surface, both holding on to it tight, like they’ll never let it go. She steps between him and the counter, bodily, snatches the knife from his hand and gives him a dirty look. “Is this what you want, Francis?” She asks, uses his full name because she  _ knows  _ he hates it.  _ Maybe she’s looking for a fight too _ , the hunger whispers. She holds the knife in her hand, eyes like steel. “You want to stand there and listen to me talk and not even try? Are you even  _ here _ ?” 

“Goddamn woman, goddamn!” Frank throws his hands up and shouts and there, the anger’s out and they’re shouting over each other and fuck, the neighbors probably think they’re batshit but he doesn’t care, can’t care past the way her eyes are lit up with fury and tears. “What the fuck you want from me, huh?” 

“I want you to come home and  _ be here _ ! All you do is sleep, and eat, and stare at me like I’m a—like you’re afraid to talk to me!” She points the knife at him and she’s not threatening, she’s holding it angrily but it’s not a threat, he knows. “So is this what you want? You want me to bring the war to  _ you _ ?” 

He stares at her, glances down at the knife in her hand at the way her chest is lifting with stilted, angry breaths. Her eyes, those goddamn eyes are digging right into him, scooping out his insides and he stalks away, stomps back and rubs his neck. He can feel her anger burrowing inside of him and he hates it but he loves it, loves that she’s not afraid of him.

“Well, Frank?” She says, eyes narrowing. “What is it? Are you just going to keep going back and bringing me less and less? Am I just going to be married to a war machine?” 

Frank blows out through his nose, hard, tries to expel the anger inside but it doesn’t work, he feels like it’s filling him up all the way to his eyeballs. “I’m still your husband,” he growls. “I’m just so fucking  _ tired _ —“

“You don’t think I am?” She snaps. “I clean the house, I cook, I drive the kids to school and soccer and clubs. I go grocery shopping. I sleep in our bed  _ alone  _ and I  _ miss you  _ and then when you come back it’s like you’re not even  _ here _ !” 

Frank stares at her, feels all the fury leave him in one go and then he’s just filled with a horrible ache. 

“No,” he says, and she says “ _ No what?”  _ and he scowls and steps closer and now she’s pressed up against him, against the kitchen island, and he growls at her but with less heat, “No, I want—I want—“

She looks up at him, locks eyes, and he hears the knife clatter to the counter. She reaches up and takes his face, pulls his forehead against her own with a quiet sob. “I miss you,” she says and it’s broken, and she’s cooling off too. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, buries his face in the crook of her neck and holds her tight. She doesn’t complain. “I don’t know how. To leave it there.” 

“Let me help you,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his mouth, his cheek, his nose. He has to stoop a little to let her, but each kiss grounds him, pulls him back to reality. This is his wonderful, furious, beautiful, strong, incredible wife. She’s right here and she’s begging to be let in. Frank buries his face in her hair and they stand still, listening to their breathing mixing in that small suburban kitchen, and for a moment the hunger settles back down--

But only for a moment. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!! How do you characterize Maria from what little we've seen? I'm a little disappointed most of her scenes were Frank's wishful views of their marriage. Hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
